


The Two Entwined

by tambrathegreat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Graphic depiction of Incestuous relationship, Incest, Multi, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:19:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6188848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tambrathegreat/pseuds/tambrathegreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fear has a smell, as does love-- Margaret Atwood</p>
<p>Bellatrix Black is honed into a weapon from the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Two Entwined

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Imablack and Vera Rozalsky for their input on this story.

_Fear has a smell, as Love does. – Margaret Atwood_

She did not remember when the smell of fear first took on the odor of sweat, sex, blood, and tart lavender. It was early in her life, that smell that was forever linked in her mind to fear along with the feeling of aching agony, weak orgasm, and the pooling of viscous fluids between her thighs. The stomach-tumbling feeling of fear it was; his, slimy and cooling, hers, hot and tainted with shame filled-blood.

Between them there was always blood, and only that first agony-wracked time was Bella innocent.

Little girls who were good did not allow their uncle in their beds at night during his stay for Samhain or Yule, or Ostara, or Beltane. Little girls that were good did not crave the rough, forbidden glide of his hairy chest against her flat, smooth one, even as she fought against the pain of his intrusion in that secret spot between her legs. Little girls that were good died by their own hands like the poor girls in the proscribed Muggle books she read in her father’s study, when no one was home but her and one of the negligent house elves. No one would ever say that Bellatrix Black was good, she made sure of that by half-hoping that Uncle Orion would seek her bed out when he visited.

At first, she told herself she welcomed him so that she could keep Narcissa safe. But as time wore on, Bella became jealous of the attention he paid anyone other than her. Narcissa was warned off Bella’s prize more times than either sister could count. Heated, hair-pulling fights broke out between them outside their parents’ hearing over who would get to greet him on his visits. Bella made sure she always won. She would welcome him with the innocence of a child at the door; arms wide, legs around his waist as he patted her back, and then, with the sinuous slide of her knicker-clad cunt against his cloth covered cock, would she be given the immediate reward. Later, she knew she would welcome him with the knowledge of Eve, in much the same way. She would show her superiority to perfect Narcissa in each thrust she took from him, each time she gobbled his bitter spunk. She was a jealous mistress, even at such a young age.

It was her tenth year when she decided to take control of the situation. Bella knew she was desirable to him in a way Aunt Walburga could never be. Bella with her black hair, dark, heavy-lidded eyes, and slender body, was all that Uncle Orion dreamed about. Bella cast as Lolita was as sure of her appeal as any larval character in a Nabokov novel. Uncle was in the library sitting before the fire, waiting for dinner to commence. His two sons and his wife were in their rooms; she with a megrim and they being punished for fighting. Her lover-uncle greeted her with the usual diffidence he showed during the day. Bella was used to it, this need for secrecy. After all, she was supposed to go to her husband untouched, and Uncle was definitely not supposed to touch her. He took precautions that no one would know, at least physically, just how much knowledge little Bella possessed. Long ago, he had showed her the spell to reattach her hymen, and he did it every time after, apologetic in a way that Bella knew was false. He loved that she spilled her virgin blood over and over for him, no matter that she held the knowledge of Lilith under his tutelage. He loved that there was that sharp shock of pain that made her want to cry out when he breached her each time. Bella thought she might like the pain too, but was unsure. Perhaps when she married she would find out.

She sat next to Uncle on the couch, knees childishly tucked under her chin, skirt hiked far enough up that he knew her old-fashioned knickers were absent. She smelled him, the leathery, lavender scent that always preceded his late-night excursions. It was the smell of love, those scents tied inextricably to the fear smells of spunk and musk. At some point in their relationship, Bella had come to realise that both were the odour of her power over him. She owned him with their secret language of scent, even if she was too young to put the thought into words. Bella had the power of his ruination between her legs.

She touched his arm and scooted up on the couch, her legs spread wide, her still naked pubis exposed. The air hit her as she lifted her skirt even higher and delved between them, opening herself for him to see. She was at once innocent in her age and a whore in her conduct. Predictably, and somewhat disappointingly, he responded to her enticement. He answered the call of her achy, little girl cunt with delving fingers and a hot jet of fluids as he raced to his small demise, even as her father’s weighty feet trod ponderously on the floor above them. After, Uncle squeezed her throat the second time he shoved into her with his nearly flaccid penis. She blacked out and came to with his smirking face over her. “My ickle whore, never do that again, or I will kill you and then tell your family what you did with me of your own will.”

It wasn’t the fear of death that silenced her, but the fear of exposure. Bella was still young enough that she wanted to be perceived as good. Her lover-uncle had helped her to sit up, and cleaned the blood and spunk from between her legs, repaired that useless bit of skin inside her, and then left the room. He had never returned to her when she was young, and Bella hated him for it.

She found after she went to school that for her and few other privileged people, pain was indeed linked with sex. Rodolphus had been the only one of the boys in her year to realise that, and at first he gave her what she wanted. More days than not after their first assignation, Bella had to charm her looks, glamour herself not to show the bruises of his fingers on her throat, his fist on her face. Rodolphus employed every perversion he could to dominate Bella, to make her his. She married him for that knowledge, bestowing her false hymen on him whilst they were betrothed. He had beaten her for giving in to him the first time he took her, and she had loved the crash of his fist in her gut, came from the feel of his knuckles on her cheek, all done whilst he took her brutally. Then he took the Mark. After that, he demanded punishment for his imagined indiscretions. She found she liked inflicting the pain almost as much as the infliction of it. Rodolphus liked it more, however, and soon Bella was cast in the role of his punisher all the time. It was not what she desired, not what she craved.

In the extremity of her disappointment the third year of her marriage, she sought out her uncle once again, and he gave her the world in a dark hood and a gag. Long gone was his fear of exposure. Walburga had never shared his passions and had finally barred him from her bed. And truly, he told Bella, she was the only being he had trained that obeyed so well under his benevolent lash. He told her he had missed her and then showed her, with whip and cord. Leather and rubber became the scent of love. Blood and heated metal became the delicious odour of fear. Would he go too far this time? Would he cut too deeply with his knives? She never knew. There were no safe words in their relationship. Bella could not stand the thought of them, even as she acknowledged that what he did to her, he did because she wanted it. She had the power over him even as he whipped her, degraded her, and suspended her from all senses but the one of pain.

Then Orion died a stupid death with an underage youth in a brothel. His heart, never the largest of organs, gave out after a strenuous session with a barely teen boy whore. Bella felt abandoned and inconsolable. Her family mistook her reaction as one of devotion to him, but it wasn’t. She hated the bastard for taking so much from her and leaving her with only her pitiful, punished husband to fill the void.

It was when Rodolphus introduced her to the Dark Lord that the scent of love and fear became entwined in the ozone-laden odour of the Cruciatus. The burning scent over her skin caused her to writhe in an ecstasy of pain and devotion. When the Dark Lord let up, Bella craved more, and the glint of red in his eyes told her he understood, and would never fail to deliver as had her husband and uncle. He had honed her to a fine weapon, withholding his painful attentions if she failed him, awarding her triumphs with the almost transcendent agony of his curses. He told her he loved her with each curse strike, each raping of her mind as he plundered her for bits of information she might be withholding from him. She saw the lie of the perception, but clung to it anyway.

He knew from the first that she loved him. She knew from the first that he found the emotion alien, but would exploit it. It was fitting. He was her punisher, her protector, her God. She acknowledged the single-sided emotion, regarded it as she would a mirror. Her true reflection was his lack of feeling for her.

It was the reason, all those years ago, that Bella Black refused to take her own life after the shame of her endless deflowering. She was nothing but a weapon, a thing to be used and then discarded if it failed to do the work that was needed. It was a lesson that her lover-uncle had started teaching her when she was young.

There was only one night that she spent in his bed, her God’s. That one night cemented her devotion to him, even as it degraded her long-forgotten husband. It was her power over the men who had never understood the true, malformed beauty that lay behind Bella’s darkly alluring facade. She was His weapon, His wife of the shattered and scattered soul, His object to wield against the pitiful Mud that they fought. In that night she lay with him, his skin cool, his breath foetid, she acknowledged that he was all things foul, filthy, and evil, all things that she was behind her mask of mad beauty. She loved him for it almost as much as he was contemptuous of her for that love.

Then, on that Samhain night of agony, her Lord entered that strange half-life and the boy Potter deprived her of her God, she raged against fate. Even if she could not prove it by her delicious torture of the two Aurors, the Dark Lord still lived. He always would, if only in her heart. Bella ran for cover, along with her weak husband and the very promising Dolohov and Crouch. Finally, they had been caught, after the untold damage that they inflicted on blood-traitor and Muggle vermin alike. She then was forced to submit to yet another scent; the dank, rotten, prison smell of Azkaban. For all those years that she lived there, she welcomed the Dementor’s visits, would have embraced the creatures as lovers if they expressed such a desire. They let her relive her agony, her failure, her pain. They stripped her of the good in her life, her memories of the time before Uncle Orion’s interest, giving her the penetrating gift of agony over and over. They gave her back that first blood-blackened night that had ushered in her fear and love as a child. They gave her the two entwined emotions in a single scent of festering decay. Bella was in ecstasy in that prison, and emerged just as whole as when she entered.

Bellatrix Black-Lestrange was never a good girl, and not a good woman. She was an excellent weapon, however, and she would serve her Lord until she died.


End file.
